


so long we become the flowers

by lipstick_spit, spiraldistortion (bisexualthorin)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Flowers, Language of Flowers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25567006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipstick_spit/pseuds/lipstick_spit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualthorin/pseuds/spiraldistortion
Summary: Caught up in the passion and fire of Jonah's affections, Barnabas had perhaps forgotten that love can manifest in different ways. It can be soft and quiet and unassuming. Buried deep until it germinates, until it sprouts up and grows and blooms. Until it can no longer be ignored--until he can no longer imagine a life without it. Love can be as simple as a flower, given for no other reason than because one can. Jonathan gives him flowers, and Barnabas loves him.a.k.a. five times Barnabas Bennett received a flower from Jonathan Fanshawe and one time he was the one to give it
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonathan Fanshawe, Implied Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Implied Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	so long we become the flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thetwistingdeceit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thetwistingdeceit/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAY WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!
> 
> This is chapter one of three total chapters with two parts each. We have the whole thing planned out, but we're slow writers so... next chapter will be up eventually.
> 
> Hugest thanks to [Elsie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity) for beta-reading and [Leto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/pseuds/Autodidact) for all the help with brainstorming.
> 
> Title is from In A Week by Hozier

1\. Lilac

Barnabas Bennett is not a man who attracts company easily. Nor is he typically the type to _seek_ the company of others. The comfort of solitude is one that is familiar to him, though he finds it most satisfying to keep to himself in the company of others. Most often, Barnabas will settle himself in a busy area with a book or a journal to keep himself busy while the noisiness of society buzzes comfortingly around him. It’s a fulfilling way to prevent himself from sequestering himself in his office day and night, without the draining exertion of attempting to uphold an entertaining veneer of personability in the company of his peers. 

He had chosen a park for this purpose today, a comfortable space under a small lilac tree. It isn’t far out of the way of passersby, but enough so that Barnabas feels content in his chances of being left to read in peace. Indeed, it is a perfect day to do so. The weather is pleasant, warm enough that many seem to have chosen to forgo lingering outside, and the breeze is gentle as it brushes across the bridge of Barnabas’s nose, ruffles at the tips of his hair.

However, as Barnabas settles in under the rustle of leaves, breathing in the perfume of flowers that suffuses the air around him, he finds that the words on the page fail to hold his attention. The story feels dull and far away in the face of the sunlight filtering through the shifting leaves to dance across the page, the bark pressing solid and irregular against his back. Barnabas’s attention drifts, book slowly drifting to his lap as he instead turns his gaze upwards, to the swaying branches under the flittering weight of playful birds, lilacs fluttering to the ground as they are shaken loose by wind and wing alike. Barnabas loses a bit of time, staring up into the arch of flower-laden branches, bark digging into his skull where he presses it firmly against the trunk. It is only by chance that his gaze drifts down, following the fluttering fall of another flower, to catch on the gentleman striding down the street. 

It takes only a moment for Barnabas to recognize the sharp angle of narrow shoulders, the shine of sunlight off close-cropped curls, the curve of a beakish nose, and before he can fully register who, exactly, he is waving down, Barnabas is scrambling to his feet. The book slides to the grass with the movement, though Barnabas pays no mind to it. 

“Doctor Fanshawe!” He calls, over-balancing and catching at the trunk of the lilac tree as he winces at the eagerness apparent in his own tone. They rarely make each other’s acquaintance, despite the many events to which Jonah invites them both. Neither of them are much of the socialite breed, and it seems to be that if one of them makes an appearance, the other has often chosen to spend the night at home. Even in the quieter gatherings, Barnabas has yet to find a topic that draws Jonathan Fanshawe from his quiet, pensive disposition. Barnabas isn’t hubristic enough to assume that the doctor’s reticence is entirely of his own doing—even with Jonah, even when he is hanging off his words as clearly as any other fool that has been caught in those guileless green eyes, Jonathan is reserved. He stands stiffly in the company of his closest associates, and grimaces at overtures of friendship—especially belligerent ones. 

Still, Barnabas isn’t one to let such a thing stop him—he has been called rude and antisocial himself, despite the fact that Barnabas would consider himself a generally friendly man. And, were Dr. Fanshawe to truly find Barnabas’s company not to his taste, Barnabas doubts that the man would be stilling at his call, the curls of his dark hair shining in the sunlight as he scans his surroundings. He also doubts that, if Dr. Fanshawe genuinely disliked his company, he would grace the interruption to his schedule with as little as the quiet look of irritation that Barnabas receives as the doctor changes his path, eating up the distance between the street and the tree with long, purposeful strides. 

“Hello, Mr. Bennett,” Dr. Fanshawe returns, once he draws near enough to speak without having to raise his voice. He doesn’t hesitate to pass into the shade under the arching branches the tree, but Barnabas can’t help but notice how the lighting changes with his approach. It softens when he passes out of the direct sunlight, turning pink-tinged and leaf-dappled against tan skin, and in turn it softens the doctor himself, smooths the sharp lines and stiff angles of him. 

The doctor is cordial as ever, polite and restrained, and to the untrained eye it might even appear that Dr. Fanshawe isn’t thrilled to see Barnabas—with the imperious tilt to his head highlighting the fact that his eyes are clearly lowered, scanning the petal-littered grass at Barnabas’s feet, and the closed-off tension to his posture. Barnabas does not have an untrained eye, but he still can’t help the distinct feeling that he is being judged for his choice of reading venue—especially as the doctor delicately leans down, plucking a fallen panicle of dark pink flowers from the ground. He hurriedly straightens from his half-unbalanced lean against the trunk, brushing his hand against his trousers to rid it of the dirt from the trunk.

Despite his brief self-consciousness, Barnabas persists. He _was_ the one to call the good doctor over, after all. It’s not as if he could simply wave him on his way now.

“You know I’ve asked you to call me Barnabas,” he tries—the same way he has tried for months now, at every event at which he has managed to catch the man. “Titles have no place among friends.”

As has happened every time Barnabas has made the request, Dr. Fanshawe gives him a small look—eyebrows pulled just the slightest bit upwards, with a small quirk of the mouth. A dry hint of amusement on a stern face. 

“And yet,” Dr. Fanshawe says, finally taking those last steps to stand in front of Barnabas, holding out the hand clutching the cluster of flowers, as if in offering. “You insist on calling me Dr. Fanshawe.”

“Ah.” His mind is perhaps too occupied by the idea of Dr. Fanshawe giving him flowers—for any reason, though Barnabas can’t _imagine_ what the reason for this gifting would be—which is the only explanation for his next words. “That’s because I respect you.”

Barnabas flushes as soon as he recognizes what he’s said, hurriedly reaching out to pluck the flowers from Jonathan’s hands. For his part, the doctor simply blinks at Barnabas, looking between Barnabas’s face and the flowers he now holds. His brow furrows, looking quite confused by the turn in conversation, and before the doctor can open his mouth to question the sequence of events, Barnabas rushes to fill the gap. He lifts the bundle to inspect, nose scrunching as the sweet aroma that suffuses the area around the tree now grows almost heady in its intensity. 

“Thank you, Jonathan. These are very pretty.” He says it quietly, and watches Jonathan’s eyes widen in minute surprise. He allows his lips to curve into a smirk, watches Jonathan catalogue the expression with quick, wary flicks of his gaze. This, Barnabas was more familiar with. “But what am I meant to do with them?”

Jonathan’s shoulders square, sharp jawline coming into stark relief as he lifts his face to scowl up at Barnabas. Despite the severity of his body language, the scrunch of the doctor’s nose is distinctly playful, and his voice is light when he shoots back, “that depends, I suppose.”

And perhaps it is the lulling scent of the lilac tree, or the new, joyful glint to Jonathan’s dark eyes, but Barnabas can’t help but sway towards the teasing tone—as helpless as a branch in the wind—as he responds. “And may I ask what it depends on?”

“Well,” Jonathan says, drawing the word out, head tilting down from its arrogant slant as he fights the smile slowly blooming across his face, though it is clear in his voice as he continues. “What do you typically do with pretty things?”

The way that Barnabas’s smile widens in response is entirely too telling, delight bubbling up and spilling across his face to settle in the creases of his eyes and pull at the edges of his grin.

“In that case, I suppose the answer would be...” He is nearly vibrating, practically giddy in the face of… well, a return, he supposes. An easy back and forth. An opening of friendship—though Jonathan’s expression is growing more suspicious with each moment Barnabas drags his reply out. He sways once more, just on the edge of deliberate, and pitches his voice conspiratorially.

“Share them.”

The speed at which color and indignation spread across Jonathan’s expression is, in all honesty, impressive. He splutters for a moment, before his eyes catch again on the lilacs and he swipes out—presumably to yank them back into his own grasp—but Barnabas laughs, stepping backwards and lifting the panicle above his head, shaking the magenta blooms loose over the doctor’s head. Jonathan bats at his hand, stumbling a few hasty steps backwards to avoid the shower, but he is smiling that timid smile once again as he runs his hands through his hair to dislodge the small blossoms.

It’s easy to be around him, Barnabas thinks as Jonathan shakes his head, sending a few more tiny flowers drifting towards the ground. Easy in a way it seldom is with anyone else. They stand there under the perfumed boughs and talk, catching up on the comings and goings of each other’s lives outside of where they intersect—outside of Jonah, though he does come up quite a bit. But Barnabas would be lying if he said he was paying very close attention, caught up in the sound of Jonathan’s voice, distracted by the delicate blooms still caught in his hair. Several still cling to the strands despite the rushed hand Jonathan had run through it to shake them out, pale pinks and purples striking against the dark of his hair. What it is he usually does with pretty things indeed, Barnabas thinks, watching as Jonathan’s mouth curves into a small, shy smile. Enjoys them.

“Well,” Jonathan says, drawing Barnabas back from his lilac-scented daydream. “I must be going. I’ve lingered altogether too long.”

“Of course!” Barnabas says with a small shake of his head. “I shan’t keep you any longer.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Bennett—Barnabas,” Jonathan catches himself with a wry twist of his mouth. “Truly.”

“I feel much the same.” He curls his hand minutely tighter around the branch, the knobs in the bark pressing into his fingertips, grounding him amidst the warm, fluttering feeling that rises in his chest. It wouldn’t do to make a fool of himself at this juncture. “Have a good afternoon, Jonathan,” Barnabas says with a grin. “Until next we meet.”

“Until next we meet,” Jonathan echoes. He dips his head and turns away, but not so quickly that Barnabas doesn’t manage to catch a glimpse of pinked cheeks and curved lips. Barnabas watches as he walks back towards the main path, brisk and with purpose, and clutches the branch close to his chest, breathing in the sweet smell of the gifted blooms.

* * *

2\. Daffodil

“I can’t believe you actually did that.”

The tone catches Barnabas’ attention more than the words, Jonathan’s normally even voice colored with heavy disbelief. He looks up to find Jonathan staring incredulously at him—gaping at him, really—and Barnabas finds himself quite pleased at this development. It’s not easy to catch Jonathan off guard, even-keeled and unshakeable as he is, and Barnabas can’t be blamed for taking some delight in such a rare occasion.

“Can’t you?” Barnabas asks, raising an eyebrow and giving Jonathan a cheeky grin. He shuffles his legs for good measure, splashing the water around his thighs and frightening a dragonfly that had landed amongst the reeds nearby. Jonathan merely blinks in response, looking thoroughly nonplussed.

“Oh, come now, Jonathan,” Barnabas says. “How long have you known me? Is this truly so out of character?”

“Not so long that your… more spontaneous actions don’t still take me by surprise,” Jonathan says with a sniff. “Though perhaps I should expect it by now, given your _character_.”

Barnabas might think him annoyed, if not for the way he tucks his chin just a bit closer to his chest. He does that often when he smiles, Barnabas has noticed, as if trying to hide it away from the world, lest it think him sentimental. But from Barnabas’ vantage point, knee-deep in the clear water of the pond and Jonathan still standing in the grass at the top of the sloped bank, he can see it quite clearly, small and fond. He’s always found Jonathan quite handsome, with his sharp cheekbones and his strong nose and his warm brown eyes; finds him even more so now with a grin softening his features.

“Perhaps,” he says quietly. “Though I shouldn’t like to stop surprising you.”

Jonathan meets his eye then, and though he suddenly looks rather shy, he holds his gaze. They spend a long, hushed moment like that, taking each other in without a word. Barnabas watches the soft play of dappled shadows across Jonathan’s face, the way the gentle breeze musses his hair from its careful combing, and is gripped with emotion, a sweet aching in his chest that leaves him nearly breathless. Jonathan is the first to look away, a flush suffusing his cheeks as he rubs his hand sheepishly across the back of his neck. Feeling a bit foolish, Barnabas casts his eyes downward, focusing instead on the ripples that spread out across the surface of the water, slow and rhythmic.

“Ah,” Jonathan says, and when Barnabas looks back up, he finds Jonathan kneeling carefully before a small yellow flower. “A daffodil.” He sounds quite pleased—as though he had found something interesting and rare instead of a common wildflower.

“Yes,” Barnabas says slowly, rather bemused. “What of it?”

Jonathan glances over at him, eyes bright and keen, and Barnabas can’t help but feel excitement well up inside him, Jonathan’s interest infectious.

“Have you heard the myth of Narcissus?”

“Of course!” Barnabas cries with mock-affront. “What sort of uncultured buffoon do you take me for?”

Jonathan fixes him with a flat look. “The sort that throws himself fully dressed into a pond.”

“Yes, fully dressed! Did you expect that I would disrobe first?” Spurred on by Jonathan’s red-faced sputtering, he waggles his eyebrows suggestively and brings a hand to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Shall I, then?”

“ _Barnabas_ ,” Jonathan hisses, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he looks around wildly. “ _What are you doing?_ ”

“Peace!” Barnabas laughs, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “I only meant to tease you. You shan’t have to worry about any truly indecorous behavior from me, on my honor.” He presses one hand to his heart and shoots Jonathan a crooked grin. 

“What honor?” Jonathan grumbles, turning back to the flower before him. Barnabas, rather charitably in his opinion, chooses to ignore it.

“To answer your question: yes, I have heard it. But never from you. I think I should like to remedy that,” Barnabas says, watching as Jonathan stokes a careful finger over one delicate petal. “A story always depends on who tells it, you know. Best to hear it from as many as one can.”

“Been listening closely at Jonah’s elbow then, I see.”

“As if you haven’t?” Barnabas asks with a raised brow.

Jonathan huffs out a laugh. “Fair enough,” he concedes. He turns his head and gives Barnabas a sidelong look. “Now, do you want to hear it, or will you continue to run your mouth instead?”

Barnabas widens his eyes and presses a finger to his own lips, miming his silence. It draws a smile from Jonathan, and Barnabas tries to resolutely ignore the fluttering it sets off in his belly.

“There are several versions of the myth,” Jonathan begins. “In this version, a young man named Ameinias saw Narcissus and, struck by his great beauty, fell deeply in love with him. Unfortunately for him, Narcissus was very vain, and he had many male suitors—”

“Sounds like someone we know, eh?” Barnabas jokes. Jonathan closes his eyes, and Barnabas feels his lips twitch with suppressed laughter as Jonathan’s nostrils flare with the deep breath he takes before he continues.

“As I was _saying_ ,” Jonathan says, “he had many male suitors, all of which he had already refused. And it was much the same for Ameinias. Taking some pity on him, Narcissus gave him his sword in recompense.”

“Gave him his _sword_!” Barnabas exclaims, leering exaggeratedly. “I’m sure the man was very glad for this _pity_ , indeed.” Barnabas tilts his head and shoots Jonathan a bawdy wink.

Jonathan gives him a very unimpressed look. “He used the sword to take his own life in his despair.”

“...Ah,” Barnabas winces after a long moment, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “I see.”

“Yes,” Jonathan says seriously. But Barnabas can see the way his lips twitch, as though he were fighting back a smile.

“My apologies,” Barnabas says. “Please, continue. I’ll be quiet.”

“Will you?” Jonathan asks mildly. He doesn’t wait for Barnabas’ response before he begins again. “As he died, Ameinias prayed to Nemesis, the goddess of retribution, that Narcissus might be taught a lesson. One day, when Narcissus stopped at a lake for a drink of water, he caught sight of his reflection on its surface and was overcome by his own beauty.”

“Now that _really_ sounds like our mutual acquaintance.”

Jonathan breaks then, a smile pulling at his lips as he ducks his head and laughs. It’s quiet and a bit stilted—as if he weren’t used to laughing so freely, as if he hadn’t done so in quite some time. It wrinkles his nose and shakes his shoulders, and in this moment, he looks unguarded and happy in a way that Barnabas has seldom seen before. Jonathan is normally so serious and composed, even in the face of Barnabas’ best attempts at making him laugh. To see him now, so light and carefree—it’s a treat, and one that fills Barnabas with warmth and sets his heart racing in his chest.

“Enough about Jonah,” Jonathan says, lips still quirked upwards. “Let me finish the story.”

Barnabas nods easily, watching as Jonathan rubs one of the petals between thumb and forefinger.

“It consumed him. He laid there by the side of the pool, wasting away as he looked down at his own face reflected back at him.” Jonathan’s voice is hushed now, gentle as he curls his fingers around the stem of the flower. “Until one day, realizing his love could never be returned, he died. And up from the ground where his body laid, sprouted a beautiful orange-gold flower. The narcissus.”

Jonathan keeps his eyes on the daffodil before him, carefully tracing the edge of a petal with his thumb. He looks as if he’s lost in thought, brow furrowed slightly and lips pursed, and Barnabas takes this chance to look his fill. He wonders if Jonathan, too, is thinking of the reflection: of the way it softens and gentles those who gaze upon it, of the desperate way that Narcissus loved it. Wonders if the reflection could have ever loved him back. 

Jonathan turns towards him again, and Barnabas imagines the look on his own face, soft and vulnerable and wanting. Imagines it mirrored on Jonathan, his own affection reflected back at him. It’s dangerous casting a stone into the pool of hope that floods his chest; the ripples in its wake could just as easily muddy everything as it could provide an answer on the depth of feeling returned. It’s too early, too _new_ —whatever _it_ truly is. Barnabas feels a bit wrong-footed, up to his knees in water with mud slick beneath his feet. And for all he may daydream and wonder and hope, in the quiet of his home or out here in this bright, sunlit meadow, their story is already as good as written. It has a Narcissus and it has a reflection, and he’s not so foolish that he can’t see that neither of the two of them fill the roles.

But it doesn’t do to dwell. And Barnabas is nothing if not skilled at deflecting with a joke and a smile.

“So,” he begins, making his way out of the water and up the muddy bank to stand at Jonathan’s side. “The crux of the story is falling in love with a man in a pond.” He grinds widely down at Jonathan. “Jonathan, why didn’t you say?”

Jonathan shoots him a withering look, though the effect is quite ruined by the dark flush to his cheeks. He plucks the daffodil from the grass and straightens to his full height. “The crux of the story is _egotism_ ,” he says, reaching out to grab Barnabas by his lapel. Barnabas’ heart trips in his chest, but Jonathan merely tucks the flower through the top buttonhole, arranging it carefully against the fabric of his coat. “And the dangers of getting a big head.”

Jonathan briefly smooths down the lapel of his jacket, hand lingering momentarily on his chest, warm and comforting. And then he turns around and walks away, leaving Barnabas gaping at his back.

“Excuse me!” Barnabas calls after him. He reaches down to struggle into his boots, his wet stockings sticking to the leather and giving him trouble. “My head is perfectly average-sized, thanks very much!”

He stumbles after Jonathan, still tugging at the top of his boot as he goes. Perhaps he should feel a bit embarrassed, soaked to the knees and mud on his cuffs and hopping like a one-footed frog. But the sound of Jonathan’s laughter ahead of him drowns it out, draws him in—and he’s helpless to do more than chase after him, fingers pressed against the flower tucked over his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> This wouldn't have happened if they had a pool :/


End file.
